These Shameless Streets
by LadyShiva17
Summary: Organized crime has rooted itself beneath Gotham City, circa 1940. The Dark Knight, aided by Commissioner Gordon, Selina Kyle, and other notables, attempts to break it, while at the same time being thwarted by various rogues. Cameo's galore!
1. Stormy Night

**A/N:** Hello. I just had a huge brainstorm and, since I love 40s era movies/stories _and_ Batman, well... put those two together and (if you're me) you might come out with this! The plan is to write a Batman fic, the main plots crime rivalry, maybe a bit of romance, etc :) Please R&R! There's more to come, I swear. But I won't post til I have at least, um... 4 reviews. :D

**Summary:** Organized crime has rooted itself beneath Gotham City, circa 1940. The Dark Knight, aided by Commissioner Gordon, Selina Kyle, and other notables, attempts to break it, while at the same time being thwarted by various rogues. Will include some of our favorite Bat friends and foes, as well as cameo's galore! Character list will be long!

_PS: 'T' rating a precaution. Allusions to gang violence and streetwalking, drunkeness, and very mild language._

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Batman or any stuff like that. All of it belongs to DC. Don't sue me... please.

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These Shameless Streets

Chapter One: Stormy Night

Cigar smoke curled up high inside the dark, sepia-toned room. It was completely black, save for one small ceiling lamp in the very center. Furniture was scarce, but the few items that graced the room were expensive and old-fashioned, inherited pieces – including a tall, walnut bookcase filled with valuable first edition classics as well as several illustrated aviary textbooks, and five low-backed chairs situated around the square card table in the center of it all. A small radio sat unused on the table, and a round-faced clock hung on the wall next to a curtainless window. Outside, the sky was pitch black except for the glow of street lamps ten stories below. The hands of the wall clock read twenty minutes to ten. Four of the five chairs surrounding the card table were occupied and hushed voices hummed, not allowing occasional car horn blares or ambulance sirens to interrupt the current conversation or the game.

"This time I want them to know," grunted the fat man with the odd-shaped nose. He wore an eye-glass on a silver chain clipped to the lapel of his purple silk vest. He stared down at his hand, but his expression was unmistakably hard and preoccupied. A busty blonde woman in a red, low-cut sequined dress sat next to him, on his left. Her name was Liz.

"Know what, baby?" she asked hoarsely, her dark red lips staunch against her pale skin and black-rimmed eyes. He ignored her and turned an ugly face toward the opponent who sat across the table. This man was a huge man, not only heavy-set but monstrously built. His hair was dark with wide smudges of white and silver above his ears and a downward peak at the top of his hairline. It was a haggard visage, with sagging under his eyes and deep lines about his mouth and double-chin that gave the impression of a long and overworked life. This man – wearing a dark green, three-button suit jacket, white shirt and wide black silk tie – shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

"They do know, Cobblepot," Rupert said smoothly, white smoke floating out of his mouth from the half-smoked cigar.

The man with the beak for a nose squawked like a ruffled bird. "Hah! I'm not so sure they do, Thorne. But they must!" He slammed a palm down and hit the card table with a loud thud, making the girls jump. The man in the green suit offered some reassurance to the nervous brunette – called Rita – next to him, patting her bare shoulder with a meaty hand and a spreading a sardonic smile. Then, taking his time, he turned back to his business partner and smirked.

"What message do you want me to send, Oswald?" he inquired with a sigh, cigar smoke spewing weightlessly through his nose.

Oswald glared at him. "This is the third time he's stolen cargo from me, and now that includes you, Rupert. We're partners here in this business venture, and we can't go in empty handed, can we?" His green-suited companion shook his huge head. The fat bird's face evolved into something resembling pleasure and determination.

"You want me to do something about it?" asked Thorne.

He narrowed his black, beady eyes and said: "Use your boys, Rupert. It's what I'm paying you for. Falcone's got to get it through his cracked skull that nobody moves in on my operations – and nobody who tries gets away with it! I'm Oswald Cobblepot!" He squawked, raising his voice. "I'm the Penguin, dammit!"

...

Across town, in a high-rise, five-star hotel, the piano was being closed up and the white-jacketed band members were returning their percussion instruments to their cases. Lights were slowly being dimmed; waiters and waitresses gathered empty champagne glasses and dinner plates and silverware to be cleaned; cream-colored tablecloths were being folded up and stored away. Carla Swanson's party guests were either going home or going to check in at The Plaza's front desk. The heiress was still out on the dance floor, swaying to non-existent band music, her navy-blue gown flowing along with her movements. She was not alone. A tall, broad-chested young man was holding her up and pretending to dance with her at the same time. Carla was grinning at him shyly, and whispering things he couldn't quite make out, but he smiled at her and watched as the hotel night-staff began sweeping the marble floor. He looked down at her, her chestnut hair glistening under his chin.

"Carla?" he asked quietly. She mumbled some kind of reply. "The party's over. Everybody's gone home."

Her head felt very heavy, but she leaned it back and stared at him through half-closed eyes. "It's all over?" she repeated.

"Yes," her companion nodded. "It's all over."

"Oh."

He stopped swaying and leaned down close. "Would you like to go home, Carla? I can call you a cab."

Carla shook her head slowly, loosening stray pieces of her brown hair from her high. fancy up-do. "No... no cab," she mumbled.

The young, dark-haired man frowned. "You can't drive, Carla. You're too drunk, and I'm–" He was interrupted.

"No, Bruce," she slurred. "I'm staying at the hotel."

"Well, that's fine, Carla." Bruce straightened up, satisfied. He was glad she didn't have any place to go tonight. She was in no condition to walk, much less drive or direct a cabbie, which meant he'd have done it for her. And while it would have been the proper thing, Bruce Wayne had other matters to attend to as well. "Come on, let me take you to your room."

His tipsy companion offered no resistance as Bruce gently took her by the arm,with one hand around her waist, to the new elevator, and finally the door of her suite. Carla pleaded briefly for Bruce to stick around, maybe for another night cap? But he politely refused, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, Carla. I can't." He watched as she swaggered further into her room, her back to him. She probably wasn't listening anyway. He shrugged his shoulders and said loud enough for her to hear: "Good night, Carla!"

Now at least that was done, but he had to hurry. Back downstairs, Bruce walked swiftly through the large, glitzy hotel foyer and out the front door, past the pair of young, uniformed doormen. He signalled George, the valet who had parked his automobile earlier. The boy nodded and went around back while Bruce waited patiently on the steps. It was cold and late, so he shoved his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo. He would have gone home much earlier, had it not been for Carla. Soon, George pulled up alongside The Plaza's front steps in the silver Highlander.

Burning out of the hotel lot, Bruce sped through downtown Old Gotham, down Main Street, then turned right onto the cliff-side roadway of Marina Drive. Marina Drive ran along a lengthy rocky bluff; the salty, black waves of Gotham Bay churning below. A blustery evening, Bruce could feel the steering wheel jerk everytime the car was hit by a powerful gust of the seaside wind. The top was down, and his jet-black hair was blowing wildly about. Bruce had to squint to guard his eyes from the cold, whipping air and keep his focus on the road ahead. Eventually – about twenty minutes out – on the top of a dark, grassy hill, he could just make out the familiar lights distinguishing his home. There it was: Wayne Manor.

...

It had been peaceful for a while, and she had been sound asleep. It was a scream that woke her up, coming from outside on the street below. A woman's scream, but not a terror-stricken or agonized scream – just a scream of excitement, of thrill. Then came another, then a shrill laugh and a high-pitched squeal. The girl must have been having a good time. Selina rubbed her eyes and, easing out of bed, moved to the broken window. Down there, on the corner of East Corwin and Lower Main, leaning under a lamp post, was Sadie.

Sadie was one of Signora Luciana's many busty, red-mouthed, face-painted "ladies." Anyone who knew anything about anything knew who Luciana was and how she made a living. And Luciana answered to somebody upstairs, but matters weren't always so clear as to who that somebody was. Most speculated that it was either "Boss" Maroni or his cousin and street rival, Carmine Falcone. Best anyone could ever come up with was that it was "a family affair," no doubt about it. Selina knew, though. Selina Kyle knew everything.

So there Sadie stood, under the dim, flickering light, wearing a tight, crimson halter-type dress that was dangerously low-cut, and laughing in that high-pitched voice. There were two men with her. Selina hadn't seen either of them before. Both were lean, both wearing black suits and fedoras, and both were sneering, pretending to laugh with Sadie at what ever had been said that was so amusing. Selina's lips formed a grim line. Sadie was drunk. One of the men said something and cleverly grabbed for Sadie's arm. She let him take it, but remained propped up against the lamp post, giggling inebriatedly. Selina frowned as she watched the other man reach for her skirt.

Decisively, she leaned out the open pane and yelled: "Sadie!"

It caught the attention of all three, including Sadie, who jerked her head upwards to look for the voice. Selina waved, with a sleepy smile, and Sadie saw her, having to squint.

Clumsily, she waved back with a floppy arm. "Hi, 'Lina!"

"Are you all right, honey?" Selina inquired, trying to sound lighthearted. Smiling, she kept a wary eye on Sadie's two companions.

"'Course I am, 'Lina!" Sadie nodded her head up and down, her movements exaggerated by the liqour she'd drank. The men looked up at Selina and she shot them a dirty look, knowing Sadie wouldn't catch it.

"Coming up soon, Sadie?" She recieved another head shake, 'no' this time.

"These boys are taking me to the Coco Club." Sadie gestered to the shorter of the two men. "Johnnie, here, wants me to dance with 'im!" she slurred.

"Is that so?" she said, with just the right amount of interest blended with disgust.

"Yeah! Hey! Why don'tcha join us, 'Lina?" Sadie shouted. "Y'ain't working tonight, are you?" This made the two men look up to her window.

It was Selina's turn to shake her head, and she slowly, solemnly did. But her voice kept a cheerful, non-chalant note when she spoke. "Yes, sugar, I've got the night off. But I plan on using it for sleeping, not..." – she couldn't help hesitating – "...dancing. Sorry, hon."

Sadie shrugged her shoulders. "Too bad." The men enthusiastically nodded their agreement. Perhaps too enthusiastically. She turned to the shorter one, who was called Johnnie. "Well, gents? Shall we go?" Taking an arm each, the men started talking again, making Sadie giggle. Before she forgot, she spun her head 'round and yelled back to her friend. "Night, 'Lina! You're missin' out!"

Selina frowned at her words. "Missing out on what?" she whispered to herself, wryly. She watched the girl in the crimson dress walk, arm-in-arm with two strange men across the road, their voices fading as they went farther and farther away. They headed down a short, dark alley and then turned a corner, and were finally out of sight. Quietly, Selina mouthed: "Be careful, Sadie," into the dark.

She shook her head again, almost mournfully, as she left the window and shuffled back to the crooked, four-post bed. Sliding under the scanty covers, she shuddered from the shock of the chilly bedding next to her warm skin. Once settled, she laid there with her eyes open, staring at the cracks and splatters on the ceiling, thinking about what Sadie had said.

Selina did work for Madam, it was true. In fact, it had been easy to get a job as one of her "pretty ladies." Her dark, raven hair and flashing emerald eyes had been attractive selling features, not to mention her well-developed bosom and plump, puckering lips. Men had been hopelessly drawn to the new girl, "'Lina."

However, Selina Kyle did not work for Signora Luciana because she was homeless, or addicted to the opium, or a drunk who'd been kicked out by her abusive husband. No, Selina had something much more valuable going for her. Three weeks on the "job" had made her a very educated woman, and because of that, The Cat – as she was known to her other employers – was up to her ears in lush, green lettuce. Because, secretly, "The Cat" was really a pigeon.

...

What had began as a cool, breezy summer night had quickly become a raging, thunder storm. Gale-force winds whipped through the branches of the several, tall birches, relentlessly forcing them against the side of the building again and again. The ominous noise of thunder rolled above, loud and foreboding. Jagged streaks of lightning flashed in the black, cloud-filled sky. Every so often, the blinding light outlined the entire courtyard, and the white bark of the birches were suddenly glaringly bright against the dark, red brick. There was no rain. It was only a lightning storm, dry and gusty and loud.

The wind was blowing through Gotham from the west, and down along the westward wing of the red brick building, there was a barred cell window. Every time the natural electric spasms surged, the entire cell was edified with white light. Inside, the shadows the bars made were imprinted onto both the brick wall and the small, crouched figure that leaned against it. The man's gangly body was curled tightly into a somewhat spherical shape, and he held his hands over his head in a defensive gesture. The lightning didn't bother him – he enjoyed anything hot and destructive – but the thunder spooked him. Somewhere, far within the depths of his tattered psyche, there was a long-suppressed hint of astraphobia – fear of thunder – that made him shudder at every clap of hot air meeting cold.

As soon as the rumbling started, he'd flung himself to the ground and covered his ears with his scarred, white hands. He was thankful that they hadn't left him in the straight-jacket overnight. His body shook with fright and surprise each time the sky boomed, and his hands clawed nervously through his shockingly green hair. His hands ran over his entire face and head. The white, spindly fingers covering his face resembled a cage, and every so often he warily peeked between his bony knuckles with a blood-shot eye to see if it was over yet.

Eventually, the thunder eased, with longer time gaps between each roaring clap. Finally, he stretched out on the small, flimsy cot, ready to sleep. There were probably only a few hours until daylight, and then the guard would be coming around with breakfast. He'd have to eat, of course. If he didn't, the guards would notice and there might be problems. They'd drag him down for a "check-up" on his mental health. Hah! On the other hand, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he'd get to visit that young, blond doctor. She was a sweet, naive little thing. Shrinks were all the same. But he could probably have fun with this one...

Lying there on the cot, with his arms folded behind his head, he shut his eyes to think. Soon, he thought. Soon he would be out of this juvenile place. He could feel it. Something was about to happen, and then he would be set free. Suddenly, his thoughts strayed back to the pretty, fair-haired psychologist, and the Joker's blood-red lips formed a wicked smile.

...


	2. Designs

**A/N:**Hey, here's the second chappie. Hope its ok. Please R&R! Let me know what you think. ;)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters/settings/backgrounds, etc. DC does. And this story is NOT being written for profit of any kind.

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These Shameless Streets

Chapter Two: Designs

The room was small and square. In the middle stood one wooden desk, littered with papers and file folders. There was a green desk lamp with a golden chain to switch it on and off, but the glass shade was cracked and it had not been dusted in a while. A tall, dark bookshelf stood self-importantly in one corner, and in the other was a glass water cooler. In front of the desk were two chairs with checkered cushions and behind the desk was a fancier – _leather_ – chair. Blinds over the window behind the desk kept the outside, summertime heat out of the office, but bright morning sunlight still shone through the slits.

James Gordon was Gotham City's Commissioner of Police, and this was his office. It wasn't very special, but it served its purpose. Gordon had two seperate telephones, but only one sat atop the desk. The other was safely stowed away in the second drawer to the left. Nobody but the commissioner was permitted to use this phone. There was someone very special on the other end.

Last night there had been quite a storm, but this morning all was well: the sun was shining, and the birds were cooeing. Since police headquarters was situated in the heart of downtown Gotham, in the business district, there were virtually no trees to speak of. And without trees, little birds were rarely around to chirp. That job was done by the high-rise- and telephone wire-perched pigeons. And they didn't chirp, they cooed.

Today, Jim Gordon sat in that fancy leather chair at his desk, and drummed his fingers along the top. The skin of his face was weathered after fourteen years on the force and nineteen years living in Gotham City. Over time, his pale ginger-coloured hair had turned to a powder white, as did his thick, bushy mustache. The black, rectangle-frame spectacles he wore were constantly down on the tip of his nose.

The cleaning lady had opened his window the night before and must have forgotten to close it again. Jim could hear those blasted pigeons cooing like mad on the ledges up the side of the building. Roughly, he stood up and shut the window, making the frame creak. It was an old building.

There was a knock at the door to his office, and Jim turned towards it and said: "Come in." It opened and in walked a short, lean man wearing a black suit and holding a black fedora in his hands. He had the kind of face that could often be mistaken as vile simply because it had been built with high cheekbones and thin lips. But he was really a good and loyal man. Jim seated himself in his chair.

The man took a tentative step forward. "Commish?"

"'Morning, Carter." Gordon motioned for the plainclothes policeman to take a seat. "So? Did the Croft girl talk?"

Carter sunk into one of the checkered chairs with a sigh. "We were with Sadie all night, and she didn't know nothin'."

Gordon eyed him. "All night, huh? You and Harman didn't... ?"

"No, sir! I'm a married man, I am." Carter shook his head vigorously, his expression aghast. The commissioner heaved a deep sigh at both Carter's steadfastness – good man, see? – and his unfortunate news. Sadie Croft was one of their few leads on Signora Luciana's enterprise, and thus a lead on the so-far elusive "Roman."

Carter frowned down at his hands, fingering his hat. "Boy, they sure do keep those girls on a tight leash. Sadie couldn't even tell me Luciana's last name! But we already know what it is."

Jim nodded absently and mumbled the name: "Cenza." He thought a moment. "What _did_ you learn, Carter?"

The plainclothes man shrugged. "Just about everything unimportant, I guess. Sadie Croft has been workin' for lady Cenza for one year. Pay is lousy, and she gets pushed around a lot, but it's work, she says." Carter paused, remembering what else Sadie had told them about herself. "Oh, and she's snagged herself a beau. Works at the Coco Club, name's Mario."

Gordon's ears perked up. "Mario?"

"You know who he is?"

"Mario Falcone. It must be. His father owns the club," Jim tapped his chin for a minute, then he snapped back to reality and turned to Carter, his brow furrowed. "You and Harman catch a few hours of sleep, then get back out and tail this 'Mario' character."

...

For a few hours it had been dark and it had been nice. Until someone mercilessly yanked back the heavy curtains and let the bright, glaring sunlight spill into the room. Bruce groaned, pulling the duvet up to shield his face from the light. He'd got in some time after four in the morning, and now he was being woken up. He didn't know what time it was now, but it couldn't have been very long. Bruce could hear the patter of footsteps moving from one end of the room to the other. Alfred was tidying up. Last night, he had gotten in later than usual. Bruce had been so exhausted that he'd just stripped off the components of his suit and let them lay where they fell.

It sounded like Alfred had gone out the door, and Bruce shifted in the bed, turning over onto his back. He let out a loud breath and blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light. The bedroom had gone from pitch black to a blinding white in just a few moments, and his eyes were still not accustomed. After a minute or two, Alfred re-entered the room, this time wheeling a cart with a white tablecloth draped over it and well-polished silver dishes sitting on top.

"Good morning, sir," he greeted cheerfully, stopping the cart at the edge of the bed.

Bruce eased himself onto his elbows and sat back against the headboard. "Alfred, what time is it?" He rubbed his face with his hand. The sun was exceptionally bright.

"Ten o'clock." Alfred arranged the cutlery setting on a breakfast tray. "You have an eleven o'clock appointment this morning with–"

"Lucius," Bruce finished his sentence. "I know."

The older eyed the younger as he offered the tray of food to Bruce, who sat it on his lap. "Business meeting, sir?"

He nodded his head. "He wants me to approve the blueprints for the new laboratory we're building down on Worthington."

"Is that all?" The butler said airily and handed a napkin to Bruce.

"Fox could do it, easily, I know. I really have to delegate these things," he said, mostly to himself, unfolding the napkin with a short sigh.

"Was it an eventful night, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked after a moment.

Bruce shook his head, tasting the fried bacon. "Not really. Jervis Tetch is back in Arkham, where he belongs," he said in between bites, finishing off the eggs. "And I think Cobblepot's finally recruited Rupert Thorne. I've been keeping close tabs on those two."

Alfred refilled Bruce's tea cup with strong, black coffee and frowned. "What of Falcone?"

Bruce downed the coffee. "He hasn't made a move yet, but my lead should prove... enlightening," he said, after a pause, with a hopeful gleam in his eye.

"Ah," the butler nodded superficially, "Which lead is that, sir?"

With an almost anxious grimace, Bruce looked up at Alfred. "I've got a _man_ on the inside."

"Ah..." This time Alfred raised his brow in recollection.

...

An ever-present cloud of blue-grey smoke hung in the center of the cool – but stuffy – dark basement, lit with only one ceiling lamp suspended over a green baize-covered poker table. Five broad-shouldered men with easily forgettable faces sat at the table, each with a hand of cards. They were in the middle of a game.

At the other end of the furnished basement was a small, brown leather couch and a plain coffee table. A crystal ash tray was crowded with stubby cigarette butts and and still-smoking cigar ends, and glasses either half-filled with either whiskey or leftover ice made a jumble of the table. Two men and one woman sat around this coffee table: a young man and the woman at the couch and the other upright in a leather reclining chair. They were in the middle of a conversation.

The younger of the men frowned, his black brows meeting at the center. "You are taking too many chances, Papa. It's–" He was cut off by the older man sitting across from him.

"Quiet, my boy," he grumbled, quietly thumbing through a wad of paper bills, a frown on his face.

The young man with slick-backed hair persisted. "It's risky! They've got it out for you, Papa." His father looked up. "Why do you have to cause so much trouble?"

"_Basta!_ Enough!" The older man almost shouted in Italian, his native tongue. He glared at his youngest son, whose brown eyes were wide at the sudden outburst. "It's none of your concern, _ragazzo_." He suddenly stood up from the leather couch. He was a tall man, and he drew up to his full six feet. He had a stern brow, dark beady eyes, and a sharp, roman nose, indicative of his Italian heritage. "Cobblepot deserves every ounce of trouble I give that fat bird."

He slowly walked over to the small but surprisingly well-stocked liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. The redheaded woman sitting on the couch stretched out her hand and called out in a whining voice: "Get me a drink, would you honey?"

Bending, he took out a tall bottle of imported bourbon and poured himself a tumbler, ignoring Patrice's request. "I used to own this blasted city," he said in a deep, gravelly voice, with his back to the others. "Providing goods and services for the people, I was. Me, '_the Roman_,' like my father before me."

"You are still on top, Papa," his son spoke up, almost timidly. Carmine spun on his heel and glared, and Patrice flinched in surprise.

"For how long?" He started to pace, still gripping the tumbler. "Ever since my cousin and I split, Oswald has been moving in on my racket. Any influence that the Falcone name ever had in this town has been slipping," he angrily washed back a swig of the drink. "I'm slipping..."

The Roman's youngest kept quiet. Turning swiftly to his son, Carmine narrowed his eyes. "Those dockyard shipments are mine, Mario! I'm taking them back, one way or another."

...

Black pigskin pumps clipped at a moderate pace down the sanitarium's linoleum-floored hallway. The young woman to whom they belonged wore a white lab coat with a vibrant red, knee-length skirt and white cap-sleeve blouse beneath, tucked in and cinched at the waist by a thin black belt. The doctor's fair, blond hair was piled high and pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head. She wore thick-rimmed spectacles over her luminous blue eyes and her lips were bright pink and plump. She had a lovely white smile, bedazzling.

Finally, she reached her destination and used her set of keys to unlock a wood door, painted grayish-blue, like all the doors in the huge building. Printed on the small glass window of said door was the name "Dr. Harleen F. Quinzel, PhD.," with the description: "Forensic Psychologist" printed below.

Outside, she knew it was sunny and bright – one of the nurses had mentioned it at lunch – but Harleen had been inside since arriving around nine, and the halls of the asylum were tungsten-lit and held an eerie greenish tone from the moss green-colored walls. Sometimes the lights would flicker, but that usually only happened during bad storms, like the one the night before.

Doctor Quinzel, however, didn't seem to mind all that much as she stepped into her cheerfully-lit office, stark in contrast compared with the outer hallway. Inside, the walls were painted a creamy off-white and scattered with various posters and charts relating to the study of criminal insanity and other mental disorders she commonly dealt with. There were no windows in her office, but there were two bright lamps in the room to compensate. A plain wooden desk faced the door, backed against the far wall, and behind it was a plain wooden, high-backed chair.

Humming to herself, she eased her petite form down into the seat and straightened her skirt for good measure. Then, with a second thought, she opened a small drawer and removed a hand-held mirror. Taking a quick glance at her blue-eyed reflection, she rubbed her pink-stained lips together and checked that her teeth were clean. A few stray golden strands had escaped from the high bun, so she hurriedly tucked them behind her ear.

Suddenly, the intercom sounded on her desk, and the loud buzz made her jump in surprise. The mirror fell from her grasp and onto the table with a little clink. She tried calming her heart by placing a free hand over her chest. Harleen could feel the frantic pulsing beneath her blouse. With the other hand, her fingers found the intercom button that connected her to the secretary of her department and pressed, holding it down.

"Yes, Daisy?" she inquired into the tiny speaker, then released the button.

The line sounded fuzzy as the secretary replied: "Your one o'clock patient is here now, Doctor."

Harleen Quinzel sounded nonchalant as she answered the girl on the other end. "You may send him in now, please. Thank you, Daisy."

She struggled to control her excited breathing and replaced the mirror, shoving the desk drawer closed with urgency. Straightening in the chair, her mouth formed a line. She had to stop grinning like an idiot. But it was useless. By now, her whole face was smiling. Harleen shook herself, trying to snap out of it, and bent her head over the desk. Her hands absently made sure that her clean, mess-free, yellow-paged notebook was perfectly aligned with the straight edge of the desk, and that her number-two pencil was also parallel.

The door opened and in stepped one large, burly guard – wearing black trousers, a white short-sleeved dress-shirt, and blue bow-tie. Behind him came another guard. Both were armed with nightsticks attached to their hips. Finally,_ he _entered. She looked up and stared as one of the guards led him to one of the plush yellow chairs stationed before her desk. No one spoke.

He was cuffed, with both hands in front, and wore the usual Arkham-inmate garb: a faded orange jumpsuit with the numbers, "752890086" stamped on both the back and on the unused breast-pocket. Harleen noticed that he wasn't in the jacket today, but she wasn't shocked. His behavior had improved over the last couple of days so much that he hadn't needed a straight-jacket.

She could see yet a third and fourth guard position themselves easily outside her office door as one of the others closed it behind them. Then she watched as the patient plopped himself lightly into a butter-colored chair. His skin was so white that it seemed almost luminescent against the orange of the outfit, so the doctor thought. And that hair! She'd never known a man with green hair before him. In some strange and sick way, she thought him somewhat attractive, appealing even.

Settled, he looked her straight in the eye and his twisted red mouth grinned, displaying his yellowing teeth. "Good afternoon, Doc!" he said with enthusiasm. She blinked, re-focusing her attention to the actual appointment, and then replied in a sweet voice.

"Hello, Joker."

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**A/N:** If you would like to read more, please R&R! It keeps me going! :) If, however, you aren't a fan of my story... or my (one-time) take on certain characters, please don't leave any nasty comments. If that's how you feel, I respect that, but just don't keep up with the story. Leave it alone, and please just keep your negative opinions to yourself. It just hurts my feelings. Thank you in advance. :)


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